by The Rascal
“A spelling bee is better shared,” he announced in cocksure tones, giving her a wink. He took her arm and escorted her through the snow, cheerfully ignoring Grace’s astonished look.
The two of them scrunched onto short benches at the back of the schoolhouse like overgrown children. Jack left his arm chivalrously around her shoulders, provoking more than one whisper from the townspeople nearby—and a few approving nods as well. Grace couldn’t help but snuggle closer, feeling wanted and appreciated for herself at long last…and less like an overlooked spinster than ever she’d dreamed.
There was something marvelous about having someone special to share things with, Grace thought happily, watching Jack applaud a particularly spectacular effort at the word quixotic. Someone special like Jack, who truly understood her and did not find her peculiar because of her interests or her passions.
“I’ll bet you were the best speller in all the territory when you were a girl,” he judged, leaning near to whisper in her ear during a break in the spelling bee. “I can picture it now. I’ll bet you beat everyone plumb easily.”
“Of course I did. But it wasn’t easy.”
Jack nodded, his dark hair tickling her cheek. “I reckon so,” he agreed. “Nothing worth having is ever easy.”
Then he straightened to watch Eli and several of his schoolmates square off in the next spelling round, looking the perfect gentleman all the while…and oblivious as ever to Grace’s pleased contemplation.
There was more to Jack Murphy, she realized, than even she had hoped. More than sparkling eyes and rugged features and a manner as charming as the most blarney-tongued Irishman.
There was kindness. And intelligence. And trust.
Even if Jack could not hide anything to save his soul, Grace recalled with a private smile. It had taken her only a matter of minutes to locate his drawings after Jack had stashed them away that night. She had very much enjoyed perusing those sketches at her leisure later, feeling proud all over again at his level of artistic skill and inventiveness. Not that he would discuss as much with her. Every time Grace broached the subject, Jack grunted his fiercest and swept her off her feet, off to some new adventure or joke or indulgent variety of kissing.
They were alike in surprising ways, the two of them. The fun they both had in attending the spelling bee—and the cider-fueled social afterward—did more than prove it. As did their private ice-skating party a few days later, the intimate poetry reading they conducted next and the sleigh ride they enjoyed.
But she and Jack were different in important other ways, and Grace would never have expected to enjoy those differences quite so much. Jack was stronger than she was, for instance, as evidenced by the burly way he helped crowbar open the hidey-hole where Grace had stowed her contraband baseballs, allowing her to hoard a few stragglers till springtime.
“Interesting tactic,” was all he said of her strategy.
He was also funnier than her, and Grace couldn’t help laughing at all of his jokes. Who would have expected taciturn Jack Murphy to make the adventures of a dancing frog sound so terribly, madly funny? Not Grace, that was for certain.
She’d only quit chuckling for an instant when she caught Jack smiling at her, his eyes sparkling. “You look beautiful when you laugh,” he said, his tone serious.
“Nonsense.” She swiped a wayward tear, knowing she must be red-faced and scrunch-nosed and possibly in need of a hankie. “I am many things, but beautiful is assuredly not—”
“You are.” He stopped her with a kiss, even though they’d only met for a moment on his snowy saloon steps. Ostensibly they were exchanging neighborly pleasantries. In truth they hadn’t been able to resist lingering. Jack leaned on his shovel with no pretense at all of working. “You’re beautiful to me.”
And Grace had only blushed all the hotter, surprised to find the snowbanks not melting all around them from his warmth.
All that month long, she found herself rushing through her days, dreaming about when she could next be with Jack. His new attentiveness thrilled her; his insight into what she found appealing made her marvel. He even indulged her admittedly unusual interest in all things scientific, when Grace knew perfectly well a brawny, plainspoken man like him probably cared little about new discoveries and spectacular improvements.
But they shared them together all the same.
“Now this is unexpected.” Jack handed her the stereoscope, offering her another turn with the viewing device at Jedediah Hofer’s mercantile. Usually such things were kept under lock and key. Somehow—undoubtedly though sheer deviltry—Jack had finagled a way to get access for himself and Grace. “You—the redoubtable Grace Crabtree—enjoying an activity that’s strictly leisurely.”
“My goodness. Redoubtable?” Pleased by his progress, she glanced up. She grasped the device carefully by its handle so that the stereograph card attached to it wouldn’t wobble while they completed the transfer. “I’m impressed.”
“It means formidable,” Jack supplied with a naughty grin as his fingers brushed hers. “Also extraordinary. Just in case you’re wondering.”
“Yes, I know.” Unable to help herself, Grace smiled at him. How could she not, when Jack regarded her so very tenderly, as though she were…precious? “And I’ll thank you to quit looking at me as though—” she leaned nearer, feeling scandalized “—as though you would like to kiss me right here!”
“I would,” he said bluntly. “Let’s. Put that down.”
Grace knew she reddened all the way to her toes.
“And besides all that, I’ll have you know this device is highly educational, not strictly leisurely.” Feeling giddy at Jack’s continued sultry perusal, Grace affected her best instructive tone. “The stereoscope is a great invention, one I have the utmost respect and gratitude for.”
Demonstrating, she raised it with a flourish.
A slightly wobbly, flustered flourish.
He gave a grunt. “A great invention, you say? I reckon that explains why you squealed with delight when you saw it,” Jack guessed, his features deadpan but somehow teasing all the same. “Why you jumped up and down with glee.”
“Yes. Well.” Doing her best to muster a bit of dignity—however belatedly—Grace peered through the stereoscope’s viewfinder. Like magic, a view of a New York City street greeted her, full of tall buildings and myriad traveling buggies. “It just so happens that I often find myself unable to contain my enthusiasm lately…when it comes to certain things at least.”
Like you. She dared to glance at Jack as she said it. His gruff nod was all the agreement Grace required. Even the mercantile storeroom seemed romantic when he gazed at her that way, she realized delightedly. All she wanted now was more time with him, alone like this.
“Are there more images?” she inquired.
Obligingly, he reached into the box of stereoscopic cards. After a short perusal, Jack selected one and inserted it into the device’s holder with ease. “Try this one. It’s a good view.”
“For a saloonkeeper,” she remarked, watching closely as he surrendered control of the stereoscope to her again, “you seem awfully familiar with scientific devices.”
He shrugged. “I’ve always been good with my hands.”
“But the way you handle mechanical things is—”
“Look.” Jack tapped the stereoscope. “You’ll see.”
Giving up on her questions for now, Grace raised the viewer. “Oh, did you see this? Look, Jack!” Unable to keep the excitement from her voice, Grace tugged his sleeve with her free hand. “It’s Paris! And the buildings almost seem to jump out at you. It’s just as though you’re strolling the Champs-Elysées.”
She passed the stereoscope, watching as he enjoyed a turn, too. “I’ve seen ordinary pictures in books of course,” she chattered on, “but none of them could compare with that.” Struck with an idea, Grace turned toward the box of cards, which they’d propped on a nearby pile of flour sacks. “Let’s see what else we have here….
”
“You’ve barely seen this one and you already want more?”
“Naturally.” Eagerly, Grace thumbed through the ordered cards, examining their labels one by one. She seized one, its side-by-side pictures looking unremarkable as they were. Once viewed through the stereoscope though, they would form one dazzling three-dimensional image. “Let’s try this one!”
“Yes, ma’am.” Grinning, Jack held out his hand.
“Oh, I’m sure I can manage.” Biting her lip, Grace cautiously removed the stereograph of Paris. She mimicked all the movements she’d watched Jack perform, then stepped back with a flourish. “Voilà. This time you go first.”
For a moment, he only went on smiling at her. “You are a capable woman, Grace. I’m impressed.”
She blushed with contentment. “Go on. Look.”
He did, allowing her an unhindered view of his chest and muscular arms as he lifted the stereoscope. She studied him with unabashed longing, wondering how she had found herself in such good fortune. After all this time, she’d found a man who understood and admired her. It felt almost too good to be true.
Suddenly, Jack stiffened. He thrust the stereoscope away.
“I just remembered. I have an appointment.”
Confused, Grace stared at him. “An appointment? But when you spirited me away from the Pioneer Press offices this morning, you said we had all day.”
“I was wrong.” Grimly, he packed up the cards they’d scattered while viewing. “You can stay. I’ll speak to Hofer.”
“No, I—” Grace didn’t understand. What had happened? “It won’t be the same without you. I’ll just have one final look.”
Jack crossed his arms. “Do what you want.”
Frowning, Grace lifted the stereoscope. “Oh, it’s Boston! I’ve never been, but I’ve heard it’s lovely.”
Jack grabbed his coat and hers from the storeroom peg, then carried both across the dimness. For some time he stood beside her, his shoulders broad and rigid beneath his shirt, holding her heavy wool and scarf at the ready. She glanced at him, recognizing impatience in the set of his mouth.
“Very well. I’m finished.” Reluctantly, Grace put away the viewing device. She shrugged into her coat and wrapped her scarf tightly. “Will you escort me back to the Press?”
“I’m late already,” Jack said, his face stony. “I’m sorry.”
For the first time in weeks, they parted on the steps of Jedediah Hofer’s mercantile and went their separate ways.
Grinning at the raucous music from the saloon piano, Jack slid a whiskey across the bar in a practiced arc. It came to a stop in front of the folded arms and slumped shoulders of a stranger who looked vaguely familiar. His youthful face was smudged with weariness, his whole demeanor downtrodden.
Probably a drummer, Jack decided, to judge by the citified but shabby clothes on him. Or a down-on-his-luck miner, chased from his claim by the weather. Lately, warm winds had blown down the mountains outside Morrow Creek, turning all the surrounding countryside to an enormous soup of mud and snowmelt, fooling the oak trees into believing spring was near. Their branches sported buds far too early, ready to unfurl, not knowing they’d only been lulled by the fickleness of nature.
“Much obliged,” the stranger mumbled. He closed his eyes, quaffed back all his whiskey, then shuddered. “One more, sir.”
Shaking his head, Jack served up another Old Orchard. He didn’t linger though, not wanting to be too accessible. A man like that was bound and determined to drink himself to a stupor. Jack would rather allow the poor lunk time to sober a bit.
“He’ll clean out his pockets at that rate,” Marcus observed. Sympathetically, he frowned at the stranger. “It’s not natural to spend that much money with your eyes closed.”
Beside him, Daniel chuckled. “That’s female trouble right there.” He aimed his chin toward the stranger, then finished a quantity of his own lager. He exhaled with pleasure. “Not that I’ve ever had any female trouble myself, mind you.”
“Course not.” Gratified by his friends’ company, Jack spread his arms along his glossy bar. It felt uniquely good to be there, ensconced behind the workings of his own business again. It had taken him a long while to build up his saloon. He was proud of it. “Only for some reason, I can’t get any more dance-hall ladies in here,” he complained good-naturedly, aiming a deadeye glance at the blacksmith. “Whenever I ask, they all say they’re not coming within two feet of that scoundrelly Daniel McCabe. Or some such.”
Daniel choked on his lager. His brows lowered. “Don’t say any of that twaddle when Sarah’s nearby. She’s tetchy about my ‘amorous’ past already. She’ll take a frying pan to my skull.”
“Ha. Nothing like a reformed bachelor to keep us all in line.” Marcus spared a second pitying glance for the stranger, then regarded his friends with sure wisdom. “There but for the grace of God we all go.” He sighed. “I’m just hopeful that Molly’s new mania for orderliness is temporary—because of the baby coming and all. Yesterday she made me go back to the mill six times for ‘prettier’ boards to make the cradle with! I can’t think what’s next.”
“Ah.” Jack nodded, selecting a cloth to clean glasses with. “That explains why you’re here, Copeland, spending money you usually hoard. Buying sarsaparilla.”
Daniel made a face. “Prissy drink.”
“You’re afraid to go home,” Jack concluded.
“The hell I am!” Marcus protested, looking aggrieved. “I only came by because Molly wants to know why Murphy here—” he nodded at Jack, making sure Daniel was paying attention “—hasn’t been spooning with Grace anymore. That’s all.”
This time it was Jack’s turn to blanch. His hand stilled on the glass he was wiping. He remembered that stereoscopic image of Boston, its familiar sights looking real enough to touch…real enough to reach all the way to the territory and wreck his second chance at things. It hadn’t been Grace’s fault, but he hadn’t wanted to face her inevitable questions either.
Daniel perked up. He slapped on an inquiring expression, which looked damned foolish on his huge, masculine face.
“Tell us, Jack. Why haven’t you been spooning with Grace?”
“Shut up, the both of you. I’m working.”
To prove it, Jack gazed over the bar, making sure his rowdy evening business was still underway. No one appeared to need anything, but the place wasn’t as crowded as he would have liked either.
He suffered the aftereffects of Grace’s troublemaking visits even now, he noted with a hitch to his breath. Customers chose to drink elsewhere rather than risk a run-in with the most rabble-rousing suffragette of Morrow Creek.
But across the saloon, a few brave patrons huddled around the Faro table, hooting over a wager that was underway. And two cowboys drank near the window, so there was hope for a turnaround still. Harry played the piano, indulging a table of merchants with his until-now undiscovered skill at bawdy ballads and rousing polkas.
“What happens with me and Grace,” Jack informed Marcus and Daniel in even tones, returning to the more important matter at hand, “is none of your damned business.”
His friends pretended astonishment.
“It’s not?” they asked each other. They guffawed.
“Drink up or get out. I’ve got paying customers to serve.”
“We pay!” Marcus objected. He probably knew exactly how much he paid, down to the last penny. He’d become a little less tight since his marriage to Molly, but he would never be altogether loose with his coin. “Give me another sarsaparilla.”
“Another lager, too,” Daniel added.
The stranger down the bar raised his head. “A whiskey!”
Jack served up all the drinks, affecting gruffness. At least his knack for sliding a glass down the slick bar hadn’t deserted him. He’d been away from his saloon too often these past weeks…although he couldn’t strictly say he regretted it.
With every inch of him, he didn’t.
Which was worrisome in the extreme. He hadn’t even found Grace a husband for all his trouble.
Daniel tasted his lager, smacking foam from his lips. “Grace is a good woman.” He slapped his hand on the bar, typically unreserved. “You’re a good man, Murphy. But I’m here to tell you, if you’re just diddling with my sister-in-law—”
“You’ll have us to answer to,” Marcus vowed.
Jack stared at them in disbelief. They only gazed back. Belligerently. “Oh, hell,” he complained. “You’re serious?”
They nodded, Marcus going so far as narrowing his eyes.
“You can’t shake loose from a Crabtree woman,” he opined after taking another swig of sarsaparilla. “So don’t even try.”
Daniel agreed. “We’ve already stood in your shoes, Murphy. Just go along peacefully, and you’ll be fine.”
Jack couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You two are threatening me? Damnation. What happened to loyalty?”
“Loyalty,” Daniel said, “can’t keep a man warm at night.”
“You’ll need us later,” Marcus added. “Believe me.”
But before Jack could answer that befuddling claim, the piano music stopped. Harry nudged his chin toward the door.
“Looks like somebody’s here to see you, Murphy.”
Grace. She was all Jack could think of.
First she’d sent her damned turncoat cronies—Marcus and Daniel—to drink his liquor and lecture him on loyalty and women and long nights needing warming up, he figured. Now she’d come herself, ready to take advantage of his weakened state.
Jack might have known she wouldn’t hang on to his “appointment” excuse for long. It had been all he could think of with that stereoscopic image of Boston in his head.
“Barkeep!” The stranger raised his scrawny arm. “One more whiskey!” Then he slumped in a snoring pile on the bar.
“Boss!” Harry yelled. “Look there!”
“Well, Murphy?” Daniel demanded amid the ruckus. He aimed a serious look at Jack. “What will it be?”